Always the Last to Know(104)

I set my palette down, rested the brush on the easel lip and went to see.

Nothing. “Is one of your friends out there?” I asked. She started moaning, trembling violently now. I took my phone in case it was something cute and I could snap a picture for Carter, who loved hearing about wildlife, New Yorker that he was.

“Okay. Let’s get your leash on, Pepper Puppy,” I said, and she wagged gratefully, still pressing her nose against the glass. I got my slicker and her shoulder harness, since she was a puller.

The wind battered us the second we stepped out the door, but Pepper leaped and tugged me down toward the river. The tide was going out, so the river was getting more and more shallow, and the rain-soaked, salty mud made walking hard.

“Easy, girl, easy!” I said. The rain had already soaked my face and the front of my jeans, but my good old L.L.Bean boots kept my feet dry. A gust of wind made me stagger back a couple of steps, my foot nearly coming out of the boot, but Pepper was on fire to get to the water.

“Pepper!” I yelled. “Stay with me!”

Then I saw what she’d seen.

It was a beached dolphin. And it was alive! Holy crap. The storm must’ve pushed it up here, and it didn’t have enough water to swim. Oh, it was tragic, flapping and struggling there. Pepper was crooning at it, her tail wagging madly, and the dolphin blew hard out of its blowhole in a whooshing sound.

Thank God I had my phone. I dragged Pepper a few yards away and tied her leash to a scrubby bush. She wanted to play with the dolphin, dropping her shoulders down, barking and wagging.

“It doesn’t know what you are, Pepper,” I said. “Settle down. But yes! This is very exciting!”

I pulled out my phone. One bar. I dialed 911, but the call dropped before it connected. I tried again. Same result. My one bar went away, and the dreaded words No Service appeared.

I texted Noah, Mickey, Mom and Juliet—in a nutshell, every capable person I knew. Dolphin stuck in tidal river by my house, please call someone, I have no service.

My phone told me the message was not delivered. “Shit!” I said.

I went closer to the dolphin—it may have been dying. Sometimes they stranded themselves, right? She (I thought it was a girl for some reason) struggled a little more and made a squeaking sound, and the noise hit me right in the heart.

“Okay. Hang on, honey. Help is on the way. I’ll be right back.”

I went back to the bush, untied my dog, had to practically drag her back to the house and shoved her inside. “Sorry, baby, you’re not going to be much help here.” I checked my phone—still no service, which had happened a few times since I moved here. That was okay. I’d get in my car and drive to Mom’s or Noah’s—

Right. My car was blocked by the tree branch.

I took a deep breath and thought. Google would be real handy right about now, but I had no power, and therefore no Wi-Fi.

Looked like I was about to become a dolphin rescuer. I grabbed a bucket, so I could pour water on her (because maybe she needed that?), and a shovel. I could dig the muck and maybe make a trench for her, and then as the tide came back in, maybe she could swim? Or I could carry her to deeper water, maybe? Oh, yes, a tarp. I could get her on it and drag her to deeper water.

“You were right, Mom,” I said aloud. “I should’ve gone to college for something more practical. Marine biology, in this case.”

Well, there was a little dolphin out there and she’d squeaked at me, and I wasn’t going to leave her alone to die. I grabbed my New York Yankees cap to keep the rain off my face and set off with my makeshift dolphin rescue kit.

She was still there. Maybe not flipping her tail as much. I knelt down next to her. “Hi, honey. I’m going to try to help you.” I stuck out my hand, in case she wanted to sniff it, like a dog, and she lifted her head up a little bit, and I swore to God she looked at me and knew I was one of the good guys. You could touch dolphins and not hurt them, right? Of course. They let you swim with them at those resort places in Florida. I touched her just south of her blowhole, and she was cold and firm and smooth. “I’ll do my best, honey. Stay with me.”

She flapped again, utterly helpless on the sand. I ran down the river to where the water was deeper and got a bucketful to pour over her. She did seem to like that, flipping and wriggling with more energy. Then I started digging the trench, which filled up with water immediately. Maybe if I could position her toward the river, she could sort of flop her way down . . .

“I’m going to touch you now, honey,” I said. “Okay? I’m going to try to turn you.”

She was, as best I knew, a bottlenose dolphin, and a little one. Maybe half-grown? I loved nature documentaries, but I was just guessing here. I knew dolphins were smart, maybe smarter than humans. And they traveled in groups—pods?—so maybe her family was waiting for her in the deeper water. Stoningham was the only town in Connecticut that had a little bit of oceanfront; most of the town hugged the very end of Long Island Sound. But out here, where I was, it was possible (if you were a dolphin, for example) to swim straight from the Atlantic, past Fishers Island to the east, and right here to the tidal river.

Taking a deep breath, I put my hands on either side of her and moved her so she faced the trench. She flapped her tail up and down, seeming to know that she had to do her part. A foot. Two feet. I dug some more, moved her a few inches in the inch or two of water, dug some more. I tried to pick her up, then abandoned the plan, afraid I would drop her. She was awkward and heavy, maybe seventy-five or a hundred pounds.